Tuesday, October 21, 2008

This has become my Sanctuary

In the beginning it was my diaries. Then small annotations in leather notebooks, quotes, lists of things to do, goals, clippings from magazines, a sort of scrapbook. Then just poems copied meticulously in my pretty handwriting, one for them and one for us. Then a few years of silence, working hard, the e-bay store, etsy, Flickr. Today this is my sanctuary, a corner where I can retreat and talk to myself, sort things out, look back, begin anew. Here I can rage and rant, whisper sweet nothings, go in circles and let it all out. And, in a way, leave a written record of the "happenings" in my life and the family.

Very few of my earlier writings have survived over the years. The one thing I regret loosing the most is the diary I made starting when I was around 14. I still remember how I treasured that thick messy notebook and all the drawings I pencilled in. It had a whole section on the coup in Chile and the first days after Pinochet. I hope it surfaces one day and someone has the dignity to return it to me. I have a feeling it got lost at the flooding of the house in La Reina.

Hopefully no satellite meltdown will occur because all these blogs will be time capsule memories for those who find them when we are gone. I've often wondered how that would be. What would the archeologists of the future find of ours. Lots and lots of trash for starters, the kind that will not biodegrade. And such odd looking things. Will they end up in a museum like the relics we have found from previous civilizations? We are the generation of excess and accumulation so a lot of sorting. What kind of picture will they come up with?

Los heraldos negros

Hay golpes en la vida tan fuertes . . . ¡Yo no se!Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos;la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma¡Yo no se! Son pocos; pero son . . . abren zanjas oscuras en el rostro mas fiero y en el lomo mas fuerte,Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros atilas;o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma,de alguna adorable que el Destino Blasfema,Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema Y el hombre....pobre...¡pobre!Vuelve los ojos,como cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada;vuelve los ojos locos,y todo lo vivido se empoza, como charco de culpa,en la mirada. Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . ¡Yo no se! Cesar Vallejo

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